


Lonely at the Top

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 01:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's lonely at the top, even in the midst of all your friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely at the Top

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I couldn't be more surprised that I wrote this today. Weird what yucky, cold Superbowl Sundays can bring out in a person...that, and a general malaise. Thanks to Elizabeth and Xanthe for being online just in time to get stuck reading this for dumb errors. Any remaining are my own, thank you very much :-)

## Lonely at the Top

by rac

Author's webpage: <http://enook.net/hl/rac/rac.htm>

Author's disclaimer: Not mine, etc. No money, either.

* * *

Lonely at the Top  
by rac / January 2000 

It would have been kinder to live in ignorance. Not to know what I was missing, what was possible. 

Ignorance is bliss, isn't it? 

But no. Life doesn't ever seem to work out lucky that way. For me, at least. For some of us? Hell, yes. Isn't that the problem? 

"Go, go, go! Yes!" 

"That's the way, baby!" 

"Goddamn! Touchdown, Rams!" 

Fuck. See that? I'm even losing in the damn Superbowl pool. 

Look at them. The best damn unit in the whole CPD. _My_ unit. _My_ guys. So, yeah, I can't bitch and moan too much. I'm not destitute. I've got a good job. I make a difference. And I've got Daryl. I'd do anything for that boy. 

"Stop moping, Simon. It's only the first quarter," Jim grins at me. Yeah, he would. His team's winning. "Want another beer?" 

"Yeah. Thanks." Damn, I sound exactly like I feel. But Jim just grins more broadly and scoots around the couch to the kitchen. Where his smile changes, softens. Becomes more private. 

Jesus. It's a wonder they don't light up the room with the...energy...they put out. Damn room's full of Cascade's finest detectives, and I've yet to hear one little whisper of speculation about the two of them. 

Why? Why is everybody missing it? Why am I the only one witnessing this...thing they've got going? Maybe I'm predisposed to see it because of the Sentinel thing, because I'm already privy to the secret they've got with that, I don't know. 

"Lookit that sonofabitch! Interference!" 

"Where's the fucking refs? Blind as bats." 

"Interference? You're dreaming, Rafe." 

The squabble's volume escalates in the room, and it shocks me when the cold beer bottle taps against my hand. 

"Hey, Simon, here's your beer. And try some of these." Blair shoves a warm plate into my other hand, spicy steam rising into the air. "Made 'em just for you, man." 

Saliva starts running in my mouth just from the smell of the spicy, barbecued buffalo wings. Damn, he remembered. "Sandburg, you trying to fatten me up like a Thanksgiving turkey?" Someone makes squawking turkey noises as I eye the enormous pile of wings on the plate. "I'm supposed to eat all these?" 

He laughs, his free, let-it-all-out laugh. "Hey, man, if you want, have at it. But I'm just givin' you first dibs. Once these animals scent 'em--" 

"Hey, I heard that, Nairboy," Brown pipes up. 

Blair twists around and grins as he talks, "--they'll be all gone. So take what you want now, okay?" 

Jim walks up behind Brown and hands him a bib and beer bottle--with a baby's nipple on it. "Here, H, so the furniture and the rug stay clean, we bought these just for you." 

The room dissolves into general chaos as Brown declares them "fighting words" and hops up, miming a right jab. Bets made on both fly loud and raucous in the air. 

"Hey! Down in front! The Titans may be behind, but there's three more quarters left, and I damn well want to see the game!" My bellow works to clear the floor between me and the television. 

"Way to clear a space, Simon! They must teach you that roar in Captain school, huh." 

I snort, cocking my eyebrows at Sandburg and giving him the old glare. "Better go get your partner before they get carried away." I remember other gatherings: wrestling matches, broken furniture and glass, and sheepish looks. These guys work hard and play just as hard, but I didn't want Jim and Blair to regret having the Superbowl party at their place. 

Blair turns and watches Jim, cocking his head as he contemplates. "Nah, he's okay. He won't get carried away. Not here, not today. Nothing's bothering him." 

True. Ellison lost it only when something was eating at him, something he couldn't get a handle on. Lately, he'd been as placid as a baby. As happy as a man in love. 

Nairboy. Brown's latest nickname has my lips curling with repressed laughter. The first time I saw Sandburg without his trademark curls flying in the breeze, I nearly didn't recognize him. You'd think without the long, curly hair he'd look less...less...hell, less electric, right? 

Wrong. Without that mop of hair, those eyes took over his face. Big, blue and as variable as the weather. Wide open and staring straight at a person. I've seen Sandburg use those baby blues like lethal weapons, at first unconsciously, but now? Now there's a calculated awareness present, replacing that look of innocence he used to have despite that square, bearded jaw of his and his eclectic background. Four years ago, that innocence hit every one of us like a slap in the face when he first arrived. No wonder we all picked on the kid. Innocence doesn't survive. We all see what happens to innocence. The law of the jungle. 

Law of the jungle. That's fitting, isn't it. Look at them, there they go again, touching. Looking. Why doesn't any one else see it, say something? Not that I want that kind of rumor rampaging around my precinct, but damn. It's just one more thing that separates me from the rest of them. One more thing. 

Used to be, once upon a time, Jim was my closest friend. Hell, is that why I stomp on Sandburg at little too heavy all the time? That's something a man doesn't like to admit to himself, jealousy over a friendship. Makes him feel small. Makes him feel pathetic. 

Makes him feel lonely. Since Joan and I split, well...there's Daryl and work and friends. Most of whom are from work. Fate brought me back together with Peggy a few years back, and just as quickly took the opportunity away from me. Made it hard to want to trust in anything again. 

Makes it hard to sit and, day after day, watch what could be. See that it's possible. There's times I want to tell everybody to go shove it, I can't do it all one more day. Can't hold it together, can't be responsible, can't care enough beyond my own damn nose. Who the hell cares about me, anyway? Joan would just as soon have my life insurance, I think. Daryl's a typical teenager, too engrossed in his own life to realize his parents are human, too, with their own needs. 

"You're being awfully quiet today." 

Ah, fuck, I'm doing that thing I can't stand. Jim perches on the arm of the sofa next to me, leaning in to speak over the other guys' hooting without having to yell. 

"Everything okay, Simon?" 

An absurd feeling of gratefulness warms me, knowing that I do matter to someone, that he noticed my mood and cares. "What, I can't sit here and grouse in peace as my team loses? And give these things to Brown before I balloon up from eating them all." I shove the platter of wings at Jim. "I gotta wash this sauce off my hands." 

On the way to the kitchen, I pass Blair leaning over Taggart's shoulder, both glued to the television as the Rams scramble to recover a fumble. "Not bad, Sandburg. A little more work on the recipe and they'll be just as good as Buffalo Bill's." 

Despite the play in motion, Blair turns around to me. "Are you kidding, Simon? They're way better than Bill's are. Don't insult my cooking!" He grins happily at me, glad to know I like his offering. Gesturing to my hands, he points to the bathroom. "There's special hand soap in the bathroom, cuts grease." A brief roll of his eyes. "Jim uses it after he does any kind of cooking or working on the car. Help yourself." 

Figures. Mr. Clean. I chuckle to myself and head to the loft's one bathroom. Neat, clean, as it usually is. You'd never know two guys live here. The soap sits in a special pump bottle on the sink, and I use it with hot water to clean up. Drying my hands on a towel, a colorful bottle on the edge of the tub snags my eye, and I pick it up to read. 

Bright green bottle, with "All-Natural, with Vitamin E and Almond flavoring" splashed across it, and in smaller letters, "guaranteed non-irritating personal lubricant....tastes great!". 

Well, shit, Ellison. That's just a little more information than I want to know. And it's a hell of a lot more information than any of those idiots out in the living room should be finding out on a bathroom run. Feeling slightly embarrassed, I pick up the bottle and shove it in the medicine chest and slam the door with an audible click. 

Great. Nice to know _somebody's_ getting some. And in the shower, yet. Hell. 

When I tromp back to the living room, the crowd is yelling various epithets at the Ram's Kurt Warner for passing the ball right into the waiting arms of the Titan's defensive end Kearse. I can't help but smile; things might be looking up. 

"'Nother beer, Simon?" Jim holds up one from the fridge. 

"Yeah. Thanks, Jim." I take it and give him the first real smile of the day. Don't know why all of a sudden I'm feeling lighter. Maybe it's something to do with the pictures I'm trying _not_ to imagine of my two detectives together in the shower, trying not to fall down and break a leg as they do the wild thing. Something kind of leveling about that idea, something humanizing, I don't know. Hell, I shouldn't even be going there. Why I'd get all bent out of shape about the love they have for each other, and then feel everything come back into balance again when thinking about their sex life, is strange. No, I really shouldn't go there. 

But I can't help smiling, anyway. Good thing the damn Titans are coming on strong. 

When the doorbell rings, I notice Blair hop up and open the door, and stand and talk to someone. A tall someone. A tall, dark and lovely someone. Giving up pretense of watching the game, I turn and stare at the door. 

Blair invites this tall and lovely someone in the house, and even over the reek of beer, nachos, wings, and god knows what else, I smell her perfume, an earthy, musky scent which, considering the topic I'd recently been thinking about, is quick to inspire ideas in my head. 

"Hey, Simon," Blair beckons me over, and for the first time I can remember, I'm eager to do what he says without argument. "This is Tanya, our next door neighbor. She's new to Cascade, just moved here from Phoenix, poor thing." He grins at her, wrapped up in sweaters and layers. "I invited her over since she doesn't know a soul other than people at her new job. Keep the slathering horde off of her, wouldja? He'll protect you, Tanya, have no fear." 

I ignore the sly smiling look he's giving me and nod. "Hi, I'm Simon. Simon Banks." 

She gives me a blinding smile, white teeth and red lips and I have the errant wish for a bottle of that scented and flavorful lube myself. "Tanya Redhorse." 

"Rafe, get up and make room for the lady," I chide, not wanting to place her down next to the handsome young man, wanting her sitting exclusively next to me. 

In the babble of hellos and chatter as everyone yelled hi to the newcomer, I catch Jim and Blair standing back in the back of the kitchen, near Blair's room, as Jim leans down and kisses his partner quickly. Our eyes catch, and Jim kind of shrugs and grins, and I grin back when I feel a hand on my arm, getting my attention. Tanya, asking me something about the game. She's a football fan. A Titans fan. 

Suddenly, I know Blair invited her on purpose. Maybe Jim told him I wasn't myself today. But still...I've got friends. Friends who care. Friends who notice. 

Possibilities exist in Tanya's lively, brown eyes that didn't exist fifteen minutes ago. Enough of my damn moping. I figure I'm grinning like an idiot and in front of my men, but for once in my life, I don't care. I've got friends. Friends who care. Friends who send out for home delivery of just what I need. Yeah, things are looking up. 

-=the end=- 


End file.
